


Nowheresville

by Jeepers_Creepers



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: F/M, Feelings, Fluff, Gen, Gift Fic, Introspection, Reminiscing, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 15:24:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14216088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeepers_Creepers/pseuds/Jeepers_Creepers
Summary: So this is it, he got what he always wanted. Too bad it kinda sucks without her.---A short little fic for Faerie, starring the gems of her fic Inventor's Absolution.





	Nowheresville

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheFaerieChild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFaerieChild/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Inventor's Absolution](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12490448) by [TheFaerieChild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFaerieChild/pseuds/TheFaerieChild). 



Life was a bitch. That was hardly a surprise anymore, really—growing up under the Overseer hadn't exactly been sunshine and Nuka-Cola—but the wasteland was a whole new class of bitch.

Butch let his bag crash to the floor, dropping onto his shitty pallet with equal grace. The dull pain in his left arm meant he sure as hell wasn't going to be sleeping any time soon, but it wasn't like he had anything better to do in the meantime. He grumbled in frustration, staring up at the ramshackle ceiling and throwing his arms behind his head, gritting his teeth with the sound of leather tearing.

Another gash had been carved in his beloved jacket, and again Butch had made it worse.

Groaning, he rolled over and buried his head in what they called a pillow out here. Smelled more like the rags Paul used to clean the pipes down in maintenance, but he was lucky to have a place to sleep at all. In the vault, countless scenarios had run through his head about the outside. Overgrown plants taking back the world, huge societies of people all as normal as 2077 apple pie, kiss-assing and schmoozing like those god-awful info tapes they had to watch in class, or even killer crabs and a hundred foot marsupials (whatever _that_ was) like in those schlockfest horror movies from back in the day.

He woulda bet a month’s worth of credits it _wouldnt’a_ been like the marsupial movies. He woulda lost those credits.

If the vault had been a shitshow, _someone_ out here was the damn ringleader. Butch hated radroaches. He really, _really_ did. He hated the chittering, skittering noises they made, he hated the quiver of their antennae, the way they smelled like old socks _before_ and _after_ ya gutted ‘em, and he hated them even more for what they did to Paul. And _now?_

He kicked himself looking back. Roaches? Out _here?_ They were the bottom of the food chain. Most of the wild fucks didn't even blink when they crushed ‘em. Figures he got over his nerves just before he learned there's a lot worse out there.

The bag he carried his ever-dwindling supplies in was lousy company, as ripped and grimy as he felt. He hadn't had so much silence in...well, _ever._ The cramped quarters of the vault were never clearer to him than they were now.

Hell, after that bastard Alphonse had shut down half the damn thing it was hard not to hear your neighbors sneeze across the hall. Every laugh, every fearful whisper, every smartass comment snarked behind his back rang off those metal walls. It had nowhere to go. Kinda like him.

He drug the bag to him by it's strap, unzipping it to dig through the same crap he’d been hauling for weeks now. It was pathetic how predictable he was with this sappy garbage. And yet despite that inner voice, he still did it. His fingers grasped the familiar metal frame at the bottom, slipping it carefully out from all the other junk.

Butch wasn't scared of a fight, wasn't scared of authority and he _sure as hell_ wasn't scared of running his mouth, but catching a glimpse of that photo brought his heart up to his throat.

There she was. Winona Fuckin’ Parker. His lifelong fear.

She was so small then, the rifle in her hands stark against the blue birthday dress that held such a special space in his memory. It had been almost otherworldly in the vault and he had spent the whole day being angry. It was all so stupid now.

The gun was unwieldy looking against her shy smile, but Winona always did like a challenge. It coaxed a grin out of him. Thank God for that, or she woulda given up on a certain Tunnel Snake ages ago.

He ran a lazy hand over his stubble. God, he must’ve looked like a shit barber. His pompadour was wilting, leaving him with an elephant trunk and unevenly greasy hair. Butch hadn’t even bothered to shave in three days, and all the caps he made for people in Megaton went straight to food and keeping whatever closest resembled a roof over his head.

Seventeen-year-old him would’ve called him a bum. Even the twenty-something Butch was inclined to agree.

_What about Winona?_ He always kept his eyes peeled for that splash of white in the wastes, but what if she had dyed it? Chopped it all off? He had seen plenty of birds out here like that.

How was she doing?

Was she safe?

Had she caught up to her old man yet?

_..._ Did she still wear his jacket?

All the shit he hadn't said snapped at him, his regrets wrestling with the memory of her goodbye like snakes in his gut. He didn't say sorry. He didn't tell her. She accepted the jacket. She kissed him anyway.

It was all a bunch of noise that rattled his nerves, and staying cooped up didn't help anything. Hell, Butch had spent most of his _life_ cooped up, so it was clear how _that_ ended up. So a walk would be good.

He dragged himself to his feet, placing the photo of Winona and her father back in his bag for the next time he felt like twisting the knife in the chest for no reason.

_The good things, the good things. Focus on the good shit._ Butch couldn't afford to be getting all bent outta shape. No, no regrets and no nonsense. Parker was fine. Hell, she was probably doing better than he was. The weirdos out here raked some damn sharp eyes down him when he was negotiating muscle jobs, and vaultie sympathy was apparently in short supply. More like the blue and yellow fuckin’ dinner bell.

He had ditched the suit as soon as he could, cussing and sweating to strip a dead merc of his clothes. Not an experience he ever wanted again, but now he looked more the part. He weaseled his way into a few hair cutting gigs on the side, but so far most of the townies in Megaton weren't ready to trust him with a blade that close to their neck and no one else gave a shit.

He shouldered his door open, feeling for his Toothpick in his pocket, and stepped out into the night. _So, good things..._ he thought, trying to conjure something up.

He ducked past leaking pipes and let his eyes pick apart the patterns in the sky. You could see all kinds of things if you looked hard enough. He had figured that out the first night, and it was a hell of a lot better alternative than gawking in the day time. It was hard to _stop_ craning his neck up like some kinda fuckin’ tourist, but pictures hadn't done it justice.

The sky went on forever, and nothing beat the crisp breeze on his face and the warmth of the sun. You could _feel_ it. Butch could see himself sitting with Paul out in nowheresville, sipping a beer and just basking in it. That woulda been nice. Real nice.

He could’ve been a barber and Paulie could’ve set up shop helping those people that were always bitchin’ about the pipes. It woulda been almost... _home-y_ then. Still, he mighta gotten carried away on the whole thing, considering the heat hadn't left his cheeks yet and it hurt when he smiled.

At first he had been concerned he was turning into one of those “ghouls”—whatever fuck it was Gob was—but that Moira chick told him it was a sunburn. Like he said, life was a bitch.

The burn was starting to fade, though, and it wasn't like anyone at the bar cared how he looked anyhow. The broad would always be sellin’ herself, Gob would always be selling drinks, and everyone else snickered at him anyhow. At least that was something he was used to.

The walk to to the bar was quick, sparing only a glance over at the bomb that served as the epicenter of it all. _Winona’d think that's interesting. Bet she got a real kick outta that one—a whole city built around a bomb. Talk about not learnin’ your lesson._ Butch shook his head, pulling the door to Moriarty's open and slipping inside.

He dropped into what had become his usual seat and ordered what had become his usual drink—the cheapest swill on the menu, and the only thing his caps could buy. At least he could stomach the wasteland drinks, if nothing else.

All the good things in his life seemed to come with conditions: _his ma (when she wasn't plastered), Paul (used to be), the Tunnel Snakes (extinct, ‘cept for him and a certain white-haired inventor if he was bein’ generous), and Winona (said certain white-haired inventor who was just as missin’ as her daddy)._ He allowed himself a sigh, rolling his neck on his shoulders and trying to cut his pity party short.

He was a _Tunnel Snake,_ damn it. They _ruled_ 101\. They got shit done, and none of that was gonna change just cause he landed on his ass on the outside. Snakes _slither,_ anyway! Don't matter how they land.

The beer was bitter, but Butch swallowed it out of spite. He could adapt, baby. He popped his collar like the good old days, gritting his teeth and taking another swig.

Parker was out here and he’d find her. The fire there was undeniable, and he wasn't about to let her off that easy. No, he had finally wrapped his hands around her waist and kissed that smartass mouth of hers and it was _real._ He’d be damned if he wasn't going to chase after Winona Parker.

Hell, that was his specialty.


End file.
